Today Is The Day
by looseleaves
Summary: How does Chandler cope with knowing that his one true love chose to marry someone else instead of him?
1. one

I know I've got another story going ('Everything Changed', hint hint), but I sat down to do my Geography homework, started typing, and this came out.

Let's pretend that no one found out about Monica and Chandler's relationship in the seasons leading up to Chandler's proposal (so obviously, they never lived together). And, when Richard turned up, Monica – gasp! – picked him over Chandler. And then a few years passed...

* * *

Today Is The Day

"Today is the day," I say firmly. And I agree with myself – to a point. The trouble is – the day for what?

I know what I want today to be. I want, idiot that I am, today to be the day that I tell her that she made the wrong choice; that he's a loser, and he'll never be good enough for her. Unfortunately, there's only one flaw in my theory – if he isn't good enough for her, then I'm the most insignificant scum ever to walk this planet. Well, if scum could walk.

"_If_ you really loved her," the more self-critical side of my brain tells me, "_If_ you really wanted to be with her forever, then you would have _told_ her. And you didn't. So, either you didn't love her—"

"—Of course I loved her! She was my reason for living," the other side of my mind (the hopelessly romantic one, incidentally) replies.

"Then you're a coward."

Well, fair play. I probably am a coward. Either that or I've got some sort of mental problem. I'm inclined to go for the latter, since it gives me an excuse and also explains the way that the two halves of my brain are having a heated debate about my (lack of a) love life.

Because of my idiocy, she's with him right now. In their _house_. It's sickening – not only do they have to get married and attempt to repopulate the whole of America, but they have to do it in a _house_. Okay, so I'm bitter. I have a _right_ to be bitter. And it has _nothing_ to do with the fact that they live in _exactly_ the house that I always imagined the two of us living in (her and me – not me and him, obviously). Absolutely nothing. And I don't _care_ that they have a cat.

And the fact that she chose him over me _isn't_ why I've been trying to avoid her for the last two and a half years. Really, it isn't. _Really_.

I'm seeing her today, anyway. We all are. It's their youngest kid's first birthday, and apparently the contract we signed when we became The Friends had something about birthday parties not being optional in the small print. I'll be alright – two bottles of whiskey and I'm alright with being Uncle Chandler. Three bottles and I'm _happy_ about it.

Am I excited?

No. Seeing the love of your life draped around her husband (who, incidentally, is _not_ you), doesn't excite you much, surprisingly.

Am I terrified?

Yes. I am a terrible actor, and she knows it. She'll see straight past my 'I'm happy for you, really I am' face into the truth. It's scary stuff, believe you me.

* * *

"Come on, man!" shouts Joey through my closed bedroom door. "We gotta go see the Duck and the Chick!" 

Joey and I gave our pets to the happy couple as a wedding present. It was a bit of a cop-out on all fronts – no one had told him that you were expected to give presents until the last minute, and I didn't trust myself to get them anything – I probably would have found myself giving the groom _smallpox_ or something – so we decided to give the animals away – they were sick, and we were both tired of being kept up all night.

Apparently it was a mistake. Joey cried for three weeks afterwards. To be honest, I'm sort of hoping that they've killed them or something. Then I'll have an excuse to hate them publicly. Okay, not her. _Him_.

"_If_ they're still alive," I mutter bitterly, trying to plant the seeds of doubt and hatred into his mind. God, I'm evil. Pure evil.

He nods, and turns to walk back to his room, before making a sudden double-take. "_What_?" he screeches, his eyes wide. "You promised me they'd live forever, man," he mumbles, his voice trembling.

Upsetting Joey is like kicking a dog. Actually, no. Upsetting Joey is like beheading a dog and then kicking it as it runs around headless, while laughing and aiming shots at it with a pistol. Only worse. "Don't worry, Joe," I find myself saying. "They're fine. Birds are immortal."

"You promise?" he asks, a tear in the corner of his eye.

"Sure." I pat him on the back, painfully aware that this is probably the closest I'll ever get to having a child of my own. It's a good thing she didn't pick me to have kids with – if I fail this miserably when I look after a thirty-year-old, what would I be like with an _actual_ baby?

He grins. "So, man, you ready?"

"Do I look ready to you?" What with all the emotion, Joey appears not to have noticed my attire – boxer shorts and blue fluffy socks.

"Hey, nice socks," he says, sniggering. "What are you, a girl?"

"No, I-" I suddenly realise that I can't possibly tell him the truth – that they're the socks I've worn to bed for the last two and a bit years – that they're _her_ socks, and sharing my bed with them is almost like sharing my bed with _her_. Because, first of all, he doesn't even _know_ about our brief, doomed relationship. And second of all, it's intensely sad and creepy. "Yeah," I say, resignedly. "Yeah. Sure. I'm a girl."

"Well, I _kinda_ always saw that one coming," says Joey, his brow slightly furled. "Seeing as you've got a girl's name and stuff."

"Chandler is _not_ a girl's name! How many times?"

"Explain Muriel, then," he smirks.

"Oh, shut up," I mutter, retreating into my room, and slamming the door behind me. It smashes into my foot, sending shockwaves of pain up the back of my leg, and I groan. Even my dramatic exit sucks.

In a fuming temper, I wrench the first clothes I come to out of the wardrobe, not noticing until I'm about to leave the room that I'm wearing the red jumper I had on when he stole her from me. It's probably a coincidence, but I can't help but feel that it's significant. Because, when I go there and see them together, it's going to be like reliving that day over and over again. Great. Something to look forward to, then.

"Come _on_, Chandler!" Joey squeals from the next room. "We've gotta give the duck that hat you knitted! And the scarf for the chick!"

I'm not particularly thrilled about Monica finding out that I've taken up knitting, actually. "Uh... maybe we should just leave them for the next time, Joe," I say, pleadingly.

He looks stormy. "No."

Well, that's that, then. We're going to see Monica and Richard and give them a miniature scarf and hat for their farmyard animals. They're going to be so grateful – almost as grateful as they were when we presented them with the duck and the chick in the first place, in fact.

"No, no, you deserve it," I will be able to say, when they insist that I shouldn't have. And that way, I'll have something to laugh about when I'm sitting at home on my own this evening. And they say that my life is meaningless!

"Let's go!" says Joey, yanking me by my arm towards our apartment door.

We go.

* * *

_Does he kiss your eyelids in the morning when you start to raise your head?  
And does he sing to you incessantly from the space between your bed and wall?_

_Does he walk around all day at school with his feet inside your shoes; looking down every few steps to pretend he walks with you?_

_Oh, does he know that place below your neck that is your favourite to be touched?  
And does he cry through broken sentences like "I love you far too much?"_

_Does he lay awake listening to your breath?  
Worried that you smoke too many cigarettes?  
Is he coughing now on a bathroom floor?  
  
For every speck of tile there's a thousand more you won't ever see but most hold inside yourself eternally._

* * *

I'll write another chapter if anyone likes this one – so don't be shy to review! 


	2. two

I am a horrible person who never updates. I am a horrible person who never updates. I am a horrible person who never updates. I am a horrible person who never updates. I am a horrible person who never updates. Now that we've established that, here's a chapter for you...

Disclaimer: Oh, come now. Did you _really_ think they were mine? _Really?_

* * *

__

_Which of the bold faced lies will we use?  
_"_I hope that you're happy - you really deserve it,  
__this will be the best for us both in the end."_

* * *

"I'm bored!" moans Joey. "I didn't want to tell you this, but your party sucks, Monica!" Obviously, Joey has never picked up the idea of tact. It's a shame, really – it can be pretty useful when it comes to being saved from angry compulsive cleaners (in other words, Monica).

Monica narrows her eyes (which, I have learned, is Woman for 'Stop talking _now_ or I'll throttle you with my mop!'). "My parties _never_ suck, Joseph. Orderly fun is the _best_ kind!" Her voice reaches at a painfully high pitch - gingerly, I begin to move my hands towards my ears until she glares at me and, in fear of being eaten alive, I innocently sit on them. One afternoon with this woman is like a regression to Kindergarten, seriously.

"O-kay," mutters Joey, sulkily (he's obviously noticed the warning signs too. Naturally, he hasn't managed this on his own – it probably has something to do with Phoebe sitting opposite him and mouthing, "She's going to _murder_ you!" – as I've said before, subtle hints have no effect on Joseph Tribbiani). "How about we play an _orderly_ game of spin-the-bottle?" he asks, his eyes lighting up. Oh, yes. Thanks a bunch, Joe. Watching _other people _kissing each other is _really_ what I want to do right now (unless it's porn, naturally. Porn has its own set of divine rules that no mere mortal could ever begin to understand).

"_I_ can't!" says Monica, slipping an arm around Richard (why did the party invitation not advise me to bring my own bucket?). "I'm married!" Ah. I'd been hoping she'd forgotten that fact.

"Me too!" squeals Rachel. Everyone turns to stare at her, frowning.

"You got a secret husband, Rach?" asks Joey, grinning. Ross pales visibly.

"Well, not _married_ married, obviously. But I've got Ross!"

"And when _he_ can't fulfil your needs, you've also got Joey!" smirks Joey, looking surprised when Ross hits him over the head.

"I'll play!" says Phoebe eagerly, waving her hand in the air (see what I mean about Kindergarten?). "I'm not-" Mike taps her on the shoulder, and she gives him a quick wave before realisation hits her. "-Oh, no. Wait. I am. Married."

"Great," I mutter. "So that just leaves me. And Joey."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time you kids had kissed," says Monica. I stare at her, my eyes bulging (as soon as I can get someone to buy my apartment, I'm moving into a goldfish bowl, I swear). "Oh, come on! Remember that New Year's when no one else would kiss you?"

The woman has such a beautiful way of putting things. "Great," I mutter sardonically. "I was _really_ hoping that _that_ would come up again..."

There's an awkward silence. "Okay – fun time over," says Monica, standing up and brushing some invisible dust from her clothes (no – wait. Isn't_ most_ dust invisible?)

"Fun?" I ask incredulously, aware of the mortal danger I'm plunging myself into by such a daring comment. Oh well – my life wasn't so much fun anyway – maybe death will be better entertainment. "You call this _fun_?"

She ignores me. "Who's going to do the washing up with me?" Silence. (well, what did she expect?) "Oh, come on! Someone! I'll even dry!" She drives a hard bargain. But, somehow, I don't really feel like spending time alone with her (well – I do, but under _slightly_ different circumstances – one of us would have to be naked. Preferably her.).

"Chandler likes washing up!" yells Joey, pointing at me (because, obviously, none of us know who _Chandler _is). "Remember? When you told me?" I stare at him. "_You_ know! We were in the kitchen! I was eating that enormous sandwich! Remember? Right before you saw those flying pigs going past the window!"

I raise my eyebrows. Lovely guy – complete idiot. He chuckles. "Can you _believe_ that I never knew pigs had wings before that conversation? God, how embarrassing would it have been if _that_ had come out in front of everyone?"

Probably as excruciatingly embarrassing as this particular situation. "Joey, you terrify me," I tell him.

Monica ignores the interruption and grabs my arm and, at the same time, I ignore the tingles that course through me as she does so. She's married. She's married. Just remember she's married... who cares about the sanctity of marriage nowadays, anyway? Richard's old – there's no way he's up to all of her needs. It wouldn't be _entirely_ inappropriate if I kissed her, would it? Yes? Damn.

"Great," she tells me, without a hint of sarcasm. "It's just you and me then, Chandler." Aren't I the lucky one?

* * *

_But your taste still lingers on my lips  
__like I just placed them upon yours and I starve...  
__I starve for you._

_But this new diet's liquid and dulling to the sense,  
__and it's crude. But it will do._

* * *

"So, have you really not been with anyone else since we broke up?" asks Monica, handing me a glass. I drop it, and she rolls her eyes as it smashes into a million pieces on the linoleum. I'm tempted to say, 'Don't look at me like that! That's exactly what you did to my heart!', but that would be horribly clichéd. Plus, it might just give away the fact that I'm still in love with her. A bit.

Man, unrequited love blows.

"Who told you that?" I question her through gritted teeth, even though I know the answer, and am preparing to strangle the chick and the duck with my bare hands in front of the person in question.

"Joey." No surprises there, then. Mental note to self: insert very sharp object somewhere which will make it very painful for Joey to sit down at first possible moment.

"Is it true?" she asks eagerly. Yeah – that's right. Today's obviously National Point Out How Pathetic Chandler Is, Then Mock Him For It After Breaking His Heart Day. I should get some kids to dress up in costumes and collect money for me – it's a tragic cause. Well, to me, anyway. For some reason, I'm guessing that people donating prefer to give their cash to people who are dying and stuff – God, some people really need to work out their priorities.

"We-ell," I begin, trying to sound derisive (and, by this, drumming in the point that she's completely right. Another nail in my coffin. Great – because there aren't enough of those yet). "That's not _entirely_ right..."

"Chandler?"

"Yes?" I reply nervously – this is, naturally, the part where she admits her undying love for me.

"You do realise that when you have to pay for it, it doesn't count as a relationship, right?" Or not. Thanks for that, Mon.

"Yes – I believe I was aware of that," I tell her. "Can we change the subject?"

"So, _have_ you been with anyone?" Obviously not. Damn. I thought she might have forgotten the original question (well – she managed to forget her feelings for me pretty easily. Unfortunately, this is apparently a slightly different situation).

"I-ye-uh... no."

She smirks – the blows just keep on coming, don't they? "No one at all?"

Bang.

"So. Anyway," I say, ready to make as much up as necessary to _change the damn subject_. "This is a great place," I lie through my teeth. "I... um... like the walls. And... stuff." I am such an eloquent liar. There's no _way_ she'll not believe me.

She looks at me strangely. Alright – maybe there's a _small_ chance I wasn't utterly convincing. But only a small one. "Well, they're pretty conventional. Y'know – there's four... but if you're that easily impressed, then we've got a roof too! You should check that out some time." Okay, fine. A _large_ chance. Shut up. (Am I telling myself to shut up? That has _got_ to be one of the signs of madness... and, yet, I'm still doing it...). "We'll have to give you a tour," she says, smiling crookedly.

Oh, that stings. 'We'. _We_ used to be a 'we'. Now we're just a 'me' – the sad and lonely one. And then a 'her-and-him' – the ones that are so damn in love it makes you want to hurl. "We?" I ask, unintentionally (well, say a word enough in your head, and it's bound to slip out, right? Right?).

"We as in me and Richard. You remember Richard, right? Y'know – my husband. You were at the wedding. _Remember_?"

Actually, no. I don't. Come on – do you really think I could have turned up to that particular wedding without being completely hammered?

Really? "Uh..." I begin awkwardly. "There's a slight chance that I might have had a _couple_ of drinks to... uh... _celebrate_ your big day." (Celebrate... want to kill myself over... same thing). "I can't really remember anything that happened, if I'm honest." Well, actually, that isn't entirely true. I can remember _some_ things – I just hope that she was too wrapped up in the whole 'happiest day of her life' thing to do the same.

"Not even when you put on one of the bridesmaid's dresses and started singing the YMCA on the stage?" Damn. Looks like she hasn't conveniently forgotten then. When are things _ever_ going to go my way? The obvious answer is probably when I stop being a sad loser, but I'm going to gloss over that...

I sniff. "If you think about it, it was the bridesmaid's fault for taking her dress off in the first place."

"No, it wasn't!" she cries. "It was your fault for introducing her to Joey! You should've learned by now that _no_ woman is immune to his... gift." She pauses, before continuing. Great. I was really hoping that _this_ was how our first proper conversation was going to go. "And the dance, Chandler? You _must_ remember the dance?"

It's like one of those nightmares you don't ever wake up from. Would suicide be too extreme an option?

"And the lipstick?" she blunders on. "How're you planning on explaining _that_?"

Alternatively, I could just kill _her_...

* * *

_So, which of the standard lines will we use?  
_"_I've been meaning to call you - I've just been so busy.  
__We'll catch up soon - let's make it a point to."_

* * *

Richard sticks his head through the open kitchen door. It's great – so long as he doesn't move, I can pretend that he's been decapitated. I don't need TV – I make my own entertainment! "Hey, kids," he says, smiling at Monica and ignoring me. I return the favour, pretending to inspect the plate I'm currently holding (hey, it could be an antique or something – really, I'm just out to get them money! I'm a lovely person!). "What're you chatting about?"

"Mind your own business," I tell him, and he laughs lightly. Odd. I was being serious.

"Just talking about our wedding," Monica says, beckoning to him and slipping her arm through his. Oh, great. Bring the demon _into_ its lair. "How's Eric?"

Eric. Their _son_. Ugly little thing.

"He's fine," replies Richard (well, if you think that being an annoying little brat is _fine_, then so be it). "He wants his Mommy, though," he smiles. "Y'think she could leave Chandler here to do the washing for a second?" Ha! He obviously doesn't know Monica at all – she'd _never_ allow _me_ to do any sort of household task unsupervised!

Monica frowns uncertainly. "I don't think I can trust him with my best plates, honey," she says. Yes! I was right! And, obviously, the fact that _I _knew this means that we should be together forever. _Obviously_. "Can you hang around with him and make sure he doesn't break anything else?"

"One glass!" I protest. "I broke one glass!"

She ignores me, and walks out of the door. So now it's just Richard and I. Alone. The perfect chance for me to... dispose of him without anyone knowing. (That's legal, right?) "So... Eric's a great kid," I tell him, trying to make idle conversation.

Richard shrugs. "I guess. It's just-" He pauses. Oh, God. Don't open up to me. Please don't open up to me! "He's nothing like me, you know?"

Can he not sense my anguished thoughts? I force a smile. "Mix-up at the hospital, huh?"

"Oh, no. He's definitely Mon's. He's so like her. Has her eyes." The same eyes I fell for? Damn. I'd better not find myself in love with a one-year-old... "But his nose, his face... they're not hers. And they're not mine. It's almost like..." he trails off mid-sentence. "No, forget it."

With pleasure.

"It's just..." he shrugs again (does he realise he's still talking?). "I just have this feeling that maybe the kid's not mine. And I'm not saying that I think Monica was unfaithful to me, because I know that couldn't happen. She's shown me how much she loves me, you know?" (Salt... wound... _rubbing_...) "But... before Monica got pregnant with Eric, I fell pretty sick with an illness-"

"I didn't know that," I mumble, feeling slightly guilty. Slightly.

"Not the terminal kind-" (Oh. Pity.) "-but... she told me that she was scared. Scared that our kids might get ill too – might get it from me. Our other kids hadn't been born in the greatest of health – Amy had a hole in her heart, and Lizzie's got chest problems, and Monica said she didn't want- want to get pregnant again if I was going to be the father."

That sentence strikes joy into my heart, it really does. Seriously.

"But she told me that she still wanted kids, and she didn't know what to do." He pauses. "And then she got pregnant, and Eric was healthy, and it was so great. But I just have this feeling... that he's not mine."

We can only hope, Richard. We can only hope.

* * *

_But your taste still lingers on my lips  
__like I just placed them upon yours and I starve...  
__I starve for you._

_But this new diet's liquid and dulling to the sense,  
__and it's crude, but it will do._

* * *

That was far too long – and there's actually a lot of other stuff I meant to pack in there. Oops. Next chapter will be shorter and less dull, I promise. Unless long and dull's your thing – in which case, you're in for a treat!

Many thanks to the lovely people who reviewed the first time around (especially those of you who were enthusiastic enough to leave multiple reviews! Thanks!). If you could try and do it again, that would be lovely. You only have to do it once this time, though - unless you like it _that_ much..


	3. three

Hello everyone! Thanks for reviewing - you're all fantasmic (great word, don't you think?). Here's Part III. I rushed it a bit, even though it took me a while to write it – don't be confused! It makes sense if you think about it!

Oh, just read it!

* * *

_All these games you play,  
__You're messing with my head  
__(you're messing with my head)_

_And I don't why I stay;  
__I should leave instead  
__(I should leave instead)_

* * *

"We need to talk," Monica announces, bursting through the apartment door (one day, I will actually lock the thing, I swear…) and swinging herself onto the counter, looking expectantly at me. 

Oh, sure. Just make yourself at home. It's not like this is my _home_ or anything… "Uh-" I begin, but she holds up a hand, cutting me off.

"Don't interrupt, Chandler." Oh, I wouldn't dare. "I'm not in the mood." _She_'s not in the mood? Hypocrite much? I wave at her, and she turns and glares. "_What_?"

"Um. Hi, by the way," I mumble.

"Oh." She blushes. "Was I a bit rude there?"

Just a smidgen. "Oh, no," I tell her. "That's the civilised way of doing things. Y'know – barging in, sitting on _my_ worktop-"

"Chandler, you are too!" she tells me, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah. Yeah, well I'm allowed. Because it's mine. It's not yours. It _could have_ been yours," I shoot back. Lord, I'm subtle. A small part of me (read: my whole being) hopes that she might take the hint, jump into my arms, and tell me how much she pines for me.

"This is _not_ why I'm here." Damn. There goes _that_ one, then. She jumps to her feet and peers into Joey's bedroom (Seriously. Who brought this woman up? And why didn't they introduce her to the concept of privacy? And how has she managed to get this far in life without anyone murdering her?). "Where's Joe?"

"He's out. He was hungry. There's no food in the fridge because we sacrificed it to the _thing_, and-"

"The _thing_?" she cuts me off (obviously, it's fine for _her_ to interrupt me. Hi, my name's Chandler Bing, and I let women walk all over me. Honestly, it's a disease.) "What the hell's the _thing_?"

Fair question, I suppose. Considering Joey and I aren't about five years old, it probably sounds a bit strange that we believe there to be a monster under my bed. Of course, it's not actually like it sounds… in fact, no – wait. It's _exactly_ like it sounds.

I shake my head. "No one's entirely sure. It-it lives under my bed and every so often you can hear it…" I lower my voice. "…squelching underneath there." She stares at me in disbelief and what seems to be pity. As much as I'd love to, I don't think I can blame her… "No, no, it's okay," I say, trying my hardest to be reassuring. "As long as we feed it, it seems to be happy." She doesn't appear to be particularly comforted by this (I wonder why?). "It's… uh… partial to bananas?" I offer.

"Chandler, don't you guys ever _clean_?" she asks, shaking her head.

"Of course we do!" I lie, deciding that pointing out that we guys like to fester in our own squalor might not be that a great an idea. I just don't feel up to riding the subway to the hospital right now – they got sick of me while I was going out with Monica in the first place. Oh, the good old days. "We _clean_! Sure, we _clean_! Just not under the bed. We don't… want to anger the…thing…"

* * *

_When I speak from my heart,  
__You laugh like it's a game  
__(Well, this ain't no game)  
__Yeah, we make great friends,  
__But it just isn't the same._

* * *

"Remind me never to go inside your bedroom." 

"When was _that_ ever going to happen?" I ask in disbelief. I think I'd remember something like _that_ being on the cards – I bet she left me a message telling me that there was a possibility we'd get back together and Joey deleted it. He does that a lot – I must remember to threaten him with my home colonic irrigation kit when he gets home (it normally does the trick).

"It wasn't."

Oh.

There's silence as she looks around the apartment, no doubt making a mental note of its filthy state so that she can work time-effectively when she breaks in armed with a mop at three o'clock in the morning (you may laugh, but she's already done it four times before…). No, wait! What am I talking about? She doesn't _need_ to break in – the door's never locked, anyway!

_How_ have we never been burgled?

"Uh- Monica?" I ask tentatively. She ignores me, but I decide to carry on anyway (I can be a brave, brave man when I want to. And the fact that I'm currently cowering behind my upraised arms has nothing to do with cowardice. _Nothing_. It's just comfortable, that's all…). "Did you actually… want to say something?"

"Of course I did," she yells, throwing a slice of last week's pizza at me. Great. I carefully peel it off my hair and place it onto a plate on the worktop (_What_? Joey gets hungry in the night sometimes – and you do _not_ want to be around when hungry Joe can't find any food, _believe_ me. I've been there. And then to the Emergency Room soon afterwards. Seriously – Monica and Joey combined have got me to the point where I have a season pass for the nearest hospital. It's quite an achievement).

"Do I get to hear it, or is it just something you're planning on keeping to yourself?" I mutter, flinching involuntarily as she advances towards me. "Okay, Mon," I say slowly, trying to calm her down. "Please don't hurt me. I'm a good guy, remember?"

She smiles – oh. She obviously thinks I'm joking. (I'm not.) "Do you remember – about a year ago – when we were both _really_ drunk and depressed and we – uh – y'know –"

Do I remember? Do I remember the night that single-handedly restored all of my faith in humanity and convinced me that suicide was not an option? Do I remember that? Do I?

"Vaguely," I reply - well, I can't tell her the _truth_! No women can handle the truth – that I am a sad, hopeless and desperate individual! I don't want to scare her away! (Again.)

Maybe I should rethink my policy towards women – I've got this feeling that it might be a _bit_ flawed. You know – just a thought, considering the fact that I haven't had a new date in three years. And that I'm still hopelessly in love with a married woman.

That makes me sound like a complete loser, doesn't it? Come to think of it, what doesn't?

* * *

_And I know this is not the way it should be  
__And I know you treat him like me  
__But I don't wanna stop _

_Don't wanna stop  
__Don't wanna stop  
__Don't wanna stop  
__I don't wanna stop_

* * *

"That… didn't mean anything to you, right?" she asks softly. 

"Oh, no. Nothing at all," I lie (well, it's better than telling the _truth_, right? Yes?).

"That's good," she replies. "I'm so glad we can be honest with each other now."

Oh, yeah. Me too. So honest. "Is that what you wanted to tell me?" I ask, raising an eyebrow (well – I would have raised an eyebrow if I could have. My parents, it seems, couldn't get anything right – including genetics. Although, considering they were both screwing the pool boy, that was probably one of their lesser evils. But still a bugger.).

"No. There's… more."

Joy.

"It's about… uh… the condom."

I am torn between terror and a strange, twisted, sort of excitement. Exhilarating as this may initially sound, this is _not_ a good thing – you're torn between puking and singing from the rooftops. _You_ try both and then see how the people on the sidewalk below react, okay?

"Uh…" she prevaricates.

Sweet God of all that is good and pure, _please_ don't let her say what I think she's about to. Seriously. I've been a good guy! Well, when I say a _good_ guy… I mean, I haven't been a _bad_ guy… much. What I'm trying to say is that I do _not_ want to be the father of a married woman's child. Can you blame me? Seriously. I mean, you sort of went and did that with Jesus, but I don't think that Mary and Joseph were technically married and… am I digging myself into a hole here?

Okay, so we've established that I'm a sinner and I'm going to hell… maybe I should change tack. Satan! He's got to help me out, right? All for one and one for all and all that (yes, that may be the Three Musketeers, but I'm sure it applies to the Dark Lord as well. Probably).

"Did the condom… not work?" I offer. Say no. Say no. Say no. Say no and I'll sacrifice a goat or something.

"Oh, no…" she replies slowly. "The condom… _worked_…" She pauses, licking her lips (is it wrong that the sight of a married woman's tongue doubles my heart rate? Yes? Oh. Moving on, then…). "Look, forget it. It's nothing."

Thank you! Thank you, kind Lucifer! (Damn – never thought I'd say – think – _that_ sentence…)

* * *

_And I don't need you to buy me pretty things  
__(You don't pay for me)  
__Pay for my tattoos, or buy me diamond rings  
__(I don't want those things)  
__All I know is that I'm happy to see you smile  
__(I wanna see you smile)  
__And it would make my day if you'd just stay for a while_

_

* * *

_

There's an awkward silence, which Monica is only too happy to fill (lucky me). "So…" she begins. "That's a beard, huh?"

"Yes – yes, it is. Well recognised. Why is it you're not running a detective agency again?" Is it me or is she changing the subject?

"You look really rough." Oh, what a charmer she really is.

"And I love you too…" I mutter, turning away (the first time I tell the truth all evening and she can't even know about it!). "Was that all?"

She prods me with an elaborately shaped finger nail. "Seriously, though. Is it a fashion statement or something?"

"Yep. It's saying, 'I forgot to shave this morning', if you must know."

"And every morning since Richard and I got together, by the looks of it…" she mutters, flicking a strand of hair from her face. Someone remind me – why am I still so desperately longing for this woman? "No, seriously, though. You look good. Fit."

"Yeah, well…" I mumble. "I've been working out." The second the words are out of my mouth, I realise the immediate conclusion she's going to jump to-

"Oh my _God_!" she squeals. "I turned you gay!"

Yep. Told you so.

Joey picks that exact moment to enter the door, clutching the remains of a large curry (most of which has been spilled down the sweater I gave him as a birthday present last Christmas. Charming.). He breaks into a grin – would it be too much to hope for that he didn't catch Monica's words? "I _knew_ it!" he shouts triumphantly. "Did ya get sick of the closet, Chandler?"

Yep. Far too much to hope for.

"Shut _up_," I growl through my teeth, kicking Joey square on the kneecap. He doubles up in pain, sniffling slightly. God – no wonder Satan was so willing to help me out earlier. He obviously recognises that I'm pure evil. Great. As Joey gets up, he plucks something worryingly fluffy from the counter. Oh, brilliant. Fantastic. My _knitting_.

"Chandler!" he reprimands me. "You forgot to give Mon and Rich-" (Rich? _Rich_? Since when has he been special enough to deserve an affectionate nickname? Why did no one let me know about this progression in our relationship?) "-the stuff you knitted for the duck and the chick!"

Oh, good God. I'm going to kill him. I'm actually going to do it. I've threatened it before but this time I'm serious. Well, as soon as I get a gun license – hang on, what happens when they ask me what I want the gun for? Is 'to kill my roommate' a good enough answer (bearing in mind that this is the US Government we're talking about, then probably, now I come to think of it…).

"_Knitting?_" she repeats. Yes. That's right – knitting. No big deal. Does everyone _have_ to keep going on about it? "You _are_ gay, Bing!". Why, yes. Apparently they do.

"Well, I can't admit I haven't _considered_ it-" I begin (note to self: This is one of those things you _keep_ in your head. Remember?). "But I was unimpressed by the excessive standards of hygiene that were necessary, so the idea got discarded."

"Thank you for that," Monica replies. "I think you've conjured some images there that are going to stay with me for a _long_ time…"

Yippee. My ex-girlfriend's longest lasting memories of me will be of me cavorting (probably naked) with other _men_. Oh well. At least they'll be of me naked – that's something, right?

* * *

_And I know this is not the way it should be  
__And I know you treat him like me  
__But I don't wanna stop _

_Don't wanna stop  
__Don't wanna stop  
__Don't wanna stop  
__I don't wanna stop_

* * *

I suddenly realise that she didn't explain what she meant earlier (is this a blessing, I wonder?), and, though I'm certain I'm going to regret it, I open my (monumentally large) mouth. "Mon, we need to talk about-" I narrow my eyes significantly. "-_you know what_. You know – what we were talking about before _somebody_-" I prod Joey lightly and he whimpers. "-interrupted us." 

"No, we don't," Monica says quickly.

"I think you'll find we do," I mutter.

"We _so_ don't."

Okay. Either I'm going mad or we're going round in circles. If I think about it, it's probably a bit of both…

"What were you talking about?" Joey calls from within the fridge (where he appears to be stuck – oh well, as long as he's talking, he definitely hasn't got his tongue stuck to the freezer. For the fifth time. Oh, what fun that is.)

"Joe – d'you think the reason I'm not mentioning it while you're here might be a _tiny_ clue?" I ask him. He doesn't reply – this either means that his brain is still trying to work out the concept – or that we can mark this down in our diaries as the sixth time that the firemen have had to come to our apartment to surgically remove Joey's tongue from the refrigerator. Oh, how I hope it's the first option.

I try to opt for a more direct approach (while still maintaining a polite level of tact, of course). "Get out, Joe," I tell him (Oh, shut up! He's been my roommate for years! We've gone past politeness!). He sniffs indignantly and enters his bedroom, smashing the door closed behind him.

"How many times have I told you not to _slam_ that damn door?" I shout after him. Monica gives me a strange look. I don't get it! _Why_ would she think that _that_ was weird? I turn to her. "What were you saying earlier? About that… night?"

"It's just that…" she swallows. "Family is important to me, right? And I believe that everyone… everyone should have a right to know where they come from."

Ah. I don't like where this is going.

"I mean… take Eric, for example."

No! I will not take your stupid son! I don't want him!

"He… he should know who his parents are, right?" She looks at me sideways. No! No! He shouldn't know! It's always best to lie to your children! That's the correct thing to do! Has the woman never read any books on good parenting? Sheesh… "Chandler?"

Desperate times call for desperate measures – I have a horrible feeling that she's going to tell me something I _really_ don't want to hear, so I decide that, as usual, running away is the only option. It's the man's way of doing things – the women talk, and we run away screaming. That's always been the natural order, and it always will be. I expect Darwin touched on it at some point.

"Uh – yeah, I suppose," I gabble. "Well, it was nice seeing you, Monica. You must – er – call again some time. You don't mind seeing yourself out, do you? I'm – er – pretty busy. You know – it's almost Joey's dinner time." She opens her mouth and I quickly interrupt her. "No? You don't mind? Good. Bye, then." I turn and retreat into my bedroom.

Well, that went pretty well, didn't it?

* * *

_Don't wanna stop  
__Don't wanna stop  
__Don't wanna stop  
__I don't wanna stop_

* * *

I can honestly say that I never, ever, thought I'd use 'Don't Wanna Stop' in a fanfiction. But, hey, weirder things _have_ happened! 

Please review!


	4. four

**TODAY IS THE DAY - CHAPTER 4**

Hello there, children! Sorry this chapter's taken some time to get up - what with being down and revision for mock GCSEs (can I say ARGH?), I haven't really had much of a chance to finish it. Two things you should know about this chapter. Number one - it's fairly short and not much happens. Number two - there _is_ a reason for this! Yes! This chapter and the next were originally one long one, but it was clearly divided into two very separate sections and it was incredibly long so I thought it would be easier this way. Hey - at least it means that the next chapter will be up quicker! It's practically all written!

* * *

"What's eatin' you, man?" asks Joey (who, himself, is eating a large sandwich and managing to coat us both in a liberal layer of mayonnaise. Charming. He _knows_ I prefer salad cream!). "You've been really… weird… lately."

Thanks, Joe. Just the kind of confidence boost I _need_ right now. Perfect.

I shrug. "Y'know… things on my mind. Life." Oh, so specific. Let's just hope he doesn't realise that I don't actually _have_ a life, or my whole (intricately constructed, of course) cover story's going to fall through…

"Life?" he frowns. Or, you know. Whatever. Him not realising that would probably be far too much to hope for – I mean, he has actually _met_ me. He stares at me for several minutes (I swear, you can literally _hear_ that cogs turning… and turning…) while he tries to translate the situation into a language his brain can understand. "I know!" he cries, breaking into a triumphant grin. "You've met a girl!"

There you go.

"No! I haven't!" I protest, dabbing at the mayonnaise that's presented itself in a rather intriguing pattern on my shirt. It's obviously designer, you know – I call it … uh… bird droppings. (It's _huge_ in London! Seriously! They have a _lot_ of pigeons there!). "I really haven't!" Well, it's true! Kind of. I didn't _just_ meet Monica! I met her over fifteen years ago! Technically, I'm not even lying!

Oh, thank God for technicalities. What _would_ I do without them? God – I might have to actually tell the _truth_! And where would _that_ get me? It doesn't bear thinking about, it really doesn't…

His eyes widen. "You've met a guy?" he gasps, in true Joey logic. Everything's got to be sexual for him… lucky bastard.

Yep. That is obviously the _natural_ conclusion to jump to, despite the fact that I have never, _ever_ shown _any _inclination of… that nature (apart from the way that I knit miniature woollens for a chick and a duck that don't even belong to me… and the way that I haven't had any date at all in a couple of years, but, hey! We're going to gloss over that!). Living in Joey's mind must be a terrifying experience – just living in his _apartment_ (well, when I say _his_ apartment, I actually mean _my_ apartment that he lives in free of charge out of the kindness of my heart – and also because trying to separate Joey from his wallet is like… well… separating something really hard. But, you know – same difference) is scary enough…

"No!" I shout. "What is _wrong_ with you, man?"

Stupid question. Far too many things to list.

He shrugs, his bottom lip starting to tremble slightly. Oh, dear Lord – it's worse than having an animal! Maybe I'll trade him in at the local pet store – for a dog, perhaps… or a llama! I can dress it in purple and call it Jeffrey! …Okay. This whole _thinking_ thing has _got_ to stop. It is far, far too dangerous.

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "I didn't mean to… upset you… and stuff." I am, naturally, lying through my teeth. Come on – this is me! What did you expect? The _truth_?!

"You shouted at me, Chandler!" he tells me reproachfully. Oh, God forbid… "So, you're definitely _not_ gay? 'Cause, y'know, there's been times I haven't been sure about you, man… definitely not, right?"

Is it actually _that_ hard a concept to grasp? Probably so – for Joey, _all_ concepts are impossible to grasp – like that you can't eat 12 pizzas in one go, _however_ much Big Larry downstairs has bet you – but still… "No, Joe. I am not gay." I sigh, resignedly, painfully aware that there's only one way he's going to believe me. "Actually, you were right the first time. I… it's a girl."

Well, it's true. Sort of. The fact that the 'girl' in question happens to be one of my best friends – oh, yeah, and _married _to the love of her lifetime (who, incidentally, is definitely _not_ me) is a minor point. Minor, minor point.

So minor it hurts.

"You like her?"

You could say that…

"No, Joe. I don't _like_ her. I'm madly, painfully, _sickeningly_ in love with her so bad that it actually causes me _physical_ pain to see her with another guy – who she happens to be totally besotted with-" Oops. Did that slip out? "Seriously. Physical pain. I'm on the verge of a major mental breakdown here, Joe."

He frowns. I'm not surprised – actual human emotion is beyond his sympathetic capacity (unless it's anger at the cat across the hall having eaten all the ice cream. Obviously.). "Whoa." Yeah – that pretty much sums it up. Such an eloquent guy – he should become an author or something. "What you gonna tell her?"

Er… something along the lines of, "I'm desperate! Take me now!"? Would that work?

"Uh… pretty much that?" I offer hopefully. Yeah – why not? Spontaneous (well, obviously not _actually_ spontaneous – that would involve making a huge idiot out of myself. My kind of spontaneity is planned at least three weeks in advance – it's so much safer. Man. I'm sad), but heartfelt. That's a pretty good plan, right?

Joey explodes over the apartment (and you just know that _I'm_ going to be the one to clean it up… oh, my God. I'm a housewife. Why did I never see this coming?), spraying mayonnaise in a wide circle around him (I'm surprised he had any _left_ after coating me in it earlier…). "You tell her that, and you're a dead man, Bing! Seriously! Relationship suicide!" Okay. Maybe not _such_ a great plan.

"Why's that?" I ask, frowning.

He chuckles. Good – I'm glad to know that my nervous breakdown's fun for _one_ of us… "Chandler, do you _really_ want her to know how pathetic and, well… _desperate_ you are?"

Well, everyone else seems to… thanks, buddy. "Joe! She already _knows_ how pathetic and desperate I am!" Gee – I _wonder _why she picked Richard over me? God. She had a lucky escape… I did her a favour!

Joey's face crumples. Oh, how sweet – he's starting to realise how pointless and futile life – well, my life – is. It's a fun ride from here, I tell you… he's going to be _so_ thankful for this gift I've – uh – blessed him with. "You're screwed, man."

Cheers.

"Not a chance."

Just keep them coming…

"You might as well not bother."

_So_ glad I have your vote of confidence…

His face lights up suddenly (don't get your hopes up – he's probably just noticed some of last week's pizza plastered to the roof, or something… don't ask me how it got there – Joey and his many – and I _mean_ many – girlfriends seem to have very interesting concepts of sex… this is me acting like I'm not jealous, by the way…). "I've got a great plan!" he crows (his eyes still firmly fixed on that slice of pepperoni on the ceiling tiles).

Oh, God. Here we go again. Somehow, Joey's great ideas generally lead to at least one of us being arrested for indecent exposure. And, for some reason, it's usually me…

"I know how to get over this chick!"

"She's not a farmyard animal, Joe…"

He frowns for a minute. "Thank God for that, man! Because, you know… that would be kinda weird. Plus, chicks are really small, so you might… y'know… _squash_ it or something…"

Someone help me. Seriously. "Okay, Joe. What's the big plan?" I ask apprehensively, fully aware that I probably don't want to know the answer.

"Go out! Get drunk! Get so damn drunk you can't even remember this chick – _girl_ –'s name!"

"I can't forget her name," I mumble. "It's carved into my heart."

Oh _my_ God. Did I just say that out loud? Joey stares at me. "I mean – uh – nah. It's raining outside, Joey!" I whine.

"Oh." He peers interestedly out of the window (obviously he thinks that, naturally, I would _lie_ to him about the weather. Man, I have such kind and trusting friends…). "Is it wet?"

"No, no, Joe," I mutter. "It's _dry_ rain."

He grins at me excitedly. "Oh, man! I _knew_ it was only a matter of time 'til they got my letters about inventing dry rain! Phoebe said it was stupid, but I was _right_!" He leans back contentedly against the worktop. Obviously all of his faith in humankind has been regained. I'm not sure whether this is sweet or disturbing…

"Uh – Joe?"

"Yeah?" he asks, not paying attention.

"When you say… 'they'…"

"The scientist dudes! I addressed the letter to 'Science Geeks, New York' and it got to them! Isn't that amazing?"

I'm sure I could think of _better_ words to describe it…

"Anyway, go, man! Go! Go to a restaurant or something!"

"Yeah. Because I won't look like a total loser having dinner _alone_. You wanna come with me?"

"Nah." He winks at me. "I've got plans – if you know what I mean…"

"Oh, I _know_, alright. I guess you want me to get out of the apartment so you can do… whatever you do on dates. And – Joey?"

"Yep?"

"What you do on dates is a secret I want you _never_ to reveal to me, okay?"

He smirks. "Oh, are you sure? 'Cause, y'know, I could give you a pretty in depth breakdown of – y'know – the _Joey treatment_-"

"It – it has a name?" I ask weakly, pulling my coat on as fast as my pitifully weak arms will allow me to.

"Hey, why stop at the description? I have _videos_!" He runs into his room excitedly. "Don't go yet, Chandler!" he shouts from his bedroom. "They're here somewhere – right under my copy of _James Bondage_…"

James Bondage. Huh. I think my father appeared in that…

Hey, that's a great story to tell at parties!

Joey emerges from the bedroom, triumphantly waving several videotapes at me. Oh, dear God… I let out a scream (can you blame me?) and run straight out of the apartment, not bothering to close the door behind me.

I think I've just been scarred for life.

* * *

Next chapter coming soon! Please review this - I really love reading the reviews and I get such great feedback for this - don't break the trend!


	5. five

Is it _really_ two and a bit months since I last updated this? To be honest, I'm not entirely sure why this chapter is only just being added, because it was almost finished when I posted the last one... oops. Anyway, thanks to **anhonestmoose**, **mam** and **Jayne** for reviewing the last chapter - and I hope that you enjoy this one!

-

-

"Chandler?" cries an (all too) familiar voice as I fall into a seat inside a café and sling my coat and scarf down. No – not Janice (although I'm thinking that she might be preferable right now… What am I _saying_? What has Monica _driven_ me to?)!

It's Monica – oh, I _must_ remember to congratulate Joey on how well his 'getting over Monica' scheme went! I doubt he'll understand, though – no one bothered to teach Joey sarcasm when he was a kid (either that or they dropped him on his head a lot… I'm thinking maybe both came into play).

"Chandler?" she repeats, taking a seat next to me.

There's just no way I'm going to be able to deny that one, is there?

I close my eyes hopefully (because, obviously, if I can't see her, then she can't see me!). "Um. Yes?" I reply, avoiding looking at her. 'Um. Yes?'. Great answer, Chandler. _That_'s going to convince her to love you.

"What's up?" Oh, it just gets better and better. Literary genius.

She lowers her head into her arms and stifles a sob. Oh, God. Depressed and vulnerable women _really_ aren't my thing. If you're a depressed and vulnerable woman, then Joey's your man.

But, hey, if you're the kind of depressed and vulnerable woman that's interested in self-deprecating sarcastic comments, then we can probably come to some sort of an arrangement… Unfortunately, I don't think Monica is.

"It's Richard," she mumbles into her coat sleeves.

Hang on a minute. It's _Richard_? Screw not wanting to talk to her - today is _definitely_ starting to look up! Finally, an opportunity to convince her that her husband's a loser (an aging loser, at that…), and that she wants to be with me! There is a God! There is!

"We had this argument, and… I don't know… I don't know, Chandler!" She looks up at me. Obviously, for some reason, she thinks that I _do_ know…

"Uh – what don't you know?" I ask her delicately (ha! Delicate! Me?)

"I don't know!" she wails.

"This is going to be one of _those_ conversations, isn't it?" I mutter.

"Pardon?"

"So, what are you doing here?" I ask, giving her a full blast of my woman charming smile (the one the Joey says makes me look like a perverted old man. But, hey – what would _he_ know? It's not like he's had much experience of women… oh. Damn. Time to stop smiling before someone dials 911).

"Oh. Just… killing time," she mumbles, looking up at me.

This is when I make a sweet comment followed up by some helpful advice and subtly romantic declaration (something along the lines of, "That stupid ass-biscuit will never be good enough for you! Marry me! Have my babies!"), and she turns to me and tells me that I'm the only one she's ever wanted to be with.

Well, that's what I _should_ do, anyway. Do I?

Obviously not. This _is _me we're talking about…

"Killing time, huh? Y'know, it's funny, isn't it?" (no! It's not! Not unless funny means 'as painful as having your reproductive organs removed with a large hook through your mouth'! In which case, I would suggest purchasing a new dictionary… or a shrink…). "We all turn a blind eye to killing Time, but if he turned up in our rooms in the middle of a night with a gun, then we'd all get pissed! Talk about your double standards!"

She stares at me. (Well, can you blame her?). It's okay – I'm used to women giving me an 'are you serious?' look… although it's usually prefaced by me asking them back to my apartment…

"Don't you get it?" I ask her (of course she _gets_ it, you fool! She's not stupid! She's thinking of the most painful ways of disembowelling you – although, hopefully not in public. Because, yeah, _that_ would be my problem with the situation). "…Killing time?" I offer hopefully.

She chooses to ignore me (a wise move, if ever there were one). "I'm _so_ glad you've matured in the last few years," she tells me.

I open my mouth to thank her before suddenly realising that she might not be _entirely_ sincere, and promptly closing it again. "I have!" I cry, outraged. (Well, if _I_ don't defend my honor, then who else will?). "The _old_ Chandler would have involved some toilet humor in that joke! Mine was entirely clean!"

Sturdy line of defence there, my man. Not _entirely_ sure whether it would stand up in court, but…

"I bet _Richard_'s never immature," I mumble sulkily (well, of course not! _Childish_ for Richard would be acting like a 50-year-old!).

"Still bitter?" she asks, with a hint of a smile (at least I'm cheering her up! And if that means ripping myself to pieces in front of her, then so be it! Oh, the things I do for love…).

Oh, no. Not at all.

"Chandler, I… we never really talked about what happened. You know – between… us…"

Yeah. There's probably a good reason for that… somehow, I don't think that hearing 1001 Reasons Why Richard's A Better Possible Life Partner Than You (_again_) would add to my endless pool of optimism.

"Oh." I reply. Some call it cowardice. I call it playing it safe. I like my way better – it makes me seem a lot less of a wimp.

"Oh?"

"Yep."

"So glad you have such a strong opinion on the topic."

No, no! I don't have an opinion at all. I'm _totally_ neutral! Completely unbiased! I don't have a clay doll of Richard that I stick pins into! Really, I don't!

"Monica, you're married."

She shrugs. "True. Maybe not for much longer…"

This is it! I have finally achieved the state of nirvana! Unconfined happiness! Euphoric joy! Best damn day of my sad little life (of course, I also feel much sympathy and deep regret at the demise of Monica and Richard's relationship… really! Well, sort of…).

"Oh?" I ask, trying to sound slightly hopeful (it's hard to get this across in a single syllable, but since the alternative would be actually forming a sentence, then, on all accounts, I think this way's a _lot_ better…).

"Chandler… I made a huge mistake when I let you go…"

And it's only taken you, what – three years – to notice this? Quick thinking there, Miss Geller… Burke… Whatever.

Hang on. I double take – did she just say what I think she did? Oh _my _God (is this a bad moment to realise that I am turning into Janice?)!

"You love Richard, Mon," I say softly, putting my hand on hers.

Wait. Did I just say that? _Why_ did I say that! I didn't _mean_ to say that! What the hell is happening here!

Oh my God, I'm possessed.

"Everyone has relationship issues now and again… no marriage is gonna be perfect, however much you want it to be…"

This is not me speaking! I swear, this is not me speaking! This is some idiot _using_ my mouth! I'm phoning the cops! I start to panic (well, wouldn't you?). Is this some sort of subconscious desire to ruin my entire life?

Yeah, because _that_'s likely… Naturally, the only plausible explanation is that I am possessed. Possessed!

"You've just got to remember that you love him…" I blunder on.

Exorcism! Only option! Hang on… what does an exorcism actually _consist_ of, exactly? Will it be painful? Will I be able to have one without Monica noticing?

More importantly will I still be able to have _children_ afterwards? (Yeah – I know I'd have to find someone actually able to spend time alone with me without feeling physically sick before that could _ever_ happen, but let's pretend! I mean, in a worst case scenario, I've always got some money saved up! I could, you know… ring one of those numbers you always see written in marker on the walls of public bathrooms… my God. Am I _actually_ having this thought? Seriously – what is _wrong_ with me?).

Come on, this is my own mouth! It really _can't_ be that hard to control it, right?

"We just… weren't right for each other."

Okay. Maybe it _is_ that hard. Why isn't she _stopping_ me? She must realise that this chivalrous, courteous behaviour is _totally_ out of character! Doesn't she know me at all?

Say something. Say anything! Anything has got to be better than all this "You love Richard" crap!

I open my mouth and close it again. No, not anything. _Anything_ is _far_ too dangerous. If I allow myself _anything_, I _will_ start telling her the joke about the three naked Englishmen, the chicken and the hooker…

Say something intelligent! Intelligent, but witty. Charming. Win her back! I open my mouth again. Intelligent! Witty! Charming!

"…Lenin?" I offer, beaming at her.

_Lenin_? Yes. That is _exactly_ what I had in mind. Way to be witty and charming! Winning, my man! Winning! That's what it says on page 1 on the How To Impress Women Survival Guide! Talk about communist Russian leaders – _that_ makes women hot!

Monica raises an eyebrow. "_Lenin_?"

Obviously the lady's mighty impressed too…

"Oh, forget it," she mutters into the table. By 'it', I assume she means 'any chance of an adult conversation with this gibbering lunatic'. Good call. "So, you've been knitting, huh?" she continues, forcing a smile (actually, considering the amount of joy this particular subject seems to give to everyone, I'd go so far as to suggest that the smile was not actually forced. At all. Whatsoever. In the slightest. Unfortunately).

"What of it?" I ask primly.

"Oh, it's nothing. Nothing… it's just… this guy at my work, Sean, _just_ came out, and–" Oh. I _think_ I can guess where this one might be going… "-you two would make _the_ cutest couple! I mean, you could share knitting patterns, swap issues of Sewing For Boys… it's perfect!" Oh. What do you know? I was right.

Seriously. Are there not better things to talk about? Like how Richard's not the father of her baby, for instance? Except apparently she thinks that I'm not _mature_ enough to conduct that kind of conversation. I really do wonder where on _Earth_ she got _that_ idea from…

Hang on! If _Richard_'s not the father, and Mon hasn't slept with anyone else except on that one night, then…

_Oh_ my _God_. _Oh my God_! This is _unbelievable_! Monica wasn't just cheating on Richard, but on _me_ too! She must have slept with someone else that day! I can't _believe_ this! …Well. Maybe I can understand the Richard part – I mean, the guy's practically an OAP; he's probably _asleep_ most of the time – but _me_? I am a _beast_! (I am also strangely full of myself, considering I spend all of my life whining about how much I suck).

I can't believe she'd do this, though! I mean… let herself get knocked up by a total stranger! It's _totally_ out of character! (Well, of course we're not counting that one time where she almost got some guy's sperm out of a sperm bank, because… because, well, we're not). If she were going to get pregnant by anyone other than Richard, you would have _thought_ that she'd choose one of us guys – although, obviously, not Joey, 'cause he's probably already fathered at least fifty children in the tri-state area alone… and not Ross, because… well… no. So that just leaves… me. I can't _believe_ she didn't sleep with _me_!

…Oh. Wait. She did.

C_rap_.

I (_very_ briefly) consider telling Monica about my sudden realisation, before dismissing it as, obviously, an incredibly stupid idea. Letting people know your true feelings… well, it's like Phoebe's mother once told her – you lock it all away inside a tiny bottle and _keep_ it locked. Lack of communication, you must understand, is the key to a healthy relationship.

Wait a second – back up there… Phoebe's mother _killed_ herself because her husband _abandoned_ her. I've known this for ten years, and yet I still accept blindly any advice she ever gave to the daughter she _lied_ to all her life.

Gosh. I _wonder_ why my relationship with Monica ever failed?

"It's just so hard," the woman in question mumbles, cutting my series of discoveries to an abrupt end – how thoughtless of her! Did she not _hear_ how important my thoughts were?

Oh, wait. No. Thoughts _in_ the head, reality _outside_. Got it.

"What is it, honey?" I reach my hand out hesitantly, and she makes a ruthless grab at it. Ouch. Sharp nails – I try not to whimper out loud (well, let's face it – if I do, she's going to assume that I'm either a coward… or horny. When, in reality, I am of course… both. But as long as _she_ doesn't figure that one out, then it's smooth sailing from here – unless, of course, we run into any icebergs. You know, in New York.).

"Richard. I know he didn't want children 'til he worked out that that's the only way he could be with me, and, oh… it sucks, Chandler. You know that feeling?"

"You could say that, yeah…"

"I'm sorry for boring you," she says softly.

I bare my teeth at her – hopefully she's perceptive enough to understand that this is my vague attempt at a smile. "Apology accepted. You're not boring me, though! Honestly!" I pretend to stifle a yawn.

"You're so sweet, Chandler… you'll find someone soon, honey, I promise…"

Oh, lucky me.

"I already found her."

"Oh." She looks up at me. "I am so, _so_ sorry, Chandler…"

Hm. Not _entirely_ the response I was aiming for (not that I'm surprised, though). No matter – all is not lost. It is never too late for her to leap on me and smother me with kisses (yeah – from that "I'm sorry you're so pathetic" head tilt she's giving me, I can tell that's _totally_ her intention. Totally).

"What makes you think that _she_ is _you_?" I retort grumpily. Yes – that's right, Chandler! Upset her! Make her think you hate her and you're not interested! That'll make her come running back (running back… running away… who can say where one starts and the other ends?)!

"Just a hunch," she murmurs. "Here. Come here…" She reaches out her arms and I fall into them (oh, please. If I have learned one thing from my years of solitary confinement, it is that you do _not_ turn down offers like this _ever_).

I convince myself that I am _not_ sinning, and that this situation with a married woman is _not_ sending me right to hell. As long as I don't have any… unholy thoughts about Monica, I'm on the straight and narrow up to paradise!

Well, _many_ unholy thoughts, anyway. Come on! I'm only human!

Okay, yeah… Satan's warming a pitchfork just for me as we speak. I should probably savour these last moments of being able to sit down without immense pain, really…

_This is nice_, I think to myself. Very nice. _So_ nice, in fact, that I _know_ I'm going to do something stupid to screw it up. Because – well, when do I not? You can just _tell_ that I'm about to make a huge mistake like–

"Mon… am I the father of your child?"

Yep. Something along _those_ lines. Exactly.

She blinks. "Richard?"

"No, no. I am _definitely_ Chandler," I inform her helpfully. Although I can see how someone could easily mix up the two of us. I mean, he's old, boring and quite possibly balding, while I'm (relatively) young, (relatively) interesting and (relatively) full-haired (I think that _anyone_ is young, interesting and full-haired in comparison to Richard Burke…). We're practically twins!

"No – not you!"

Oh. I knew that. "Who?"

"_Him_!" She releases me from her clutch, and tears my heart into tiny little pieces (over dramatic? _Me_? Never!), pointing to the rather large _tree_ of a man standing and staring at us (I'm thinking an oak tree – they're hundreds of years old, right?).

Oh. Great. Richard. _Just_ the guy I wanted to see. Because, you know, _he_'s not going to want to kill me or anything…

Now would be a good time to run, wouldn't it?


End file.
